


Stable

by shadow_lover



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Free Will, Gen, Identity Issues, Introspection, Light Angst, Loss of Identity, Post-The Mage Winds, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nyara received a gift from the goddess, but she isn't sure how she feels about the transformation. She seeks solitude to try and cope on her own terms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stable

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [21 Days of Valdemar](http://21-days.dreamwidth.org/); originally posted [here](https://21-days.dreamwidth.org/1496.html?thread=71640#cmt71640).

At last gryphons and Heralds and Hawkbrothers had dispersed, and Nyara saw a path to escape the series of celebratory embraces. Skif was distracted, talking to one of the Healers; she slipped away without him seeing. She left Need propped up in the salle – though the sword could certainly address her from anywhere she chose, the physical distance gave Nyara the chance to forget that for a while.

She headed for the stables trying desperately not to cry. Or at least to conceal her tears from the servants and Heralds she passed. So far as she could tell, none had so much as given her a second glance. She was utterly unremarkable, just a pretty girl in foreign garb, and Nyara never would have guessed the invisibility would sting so much. It wasn’t just Skif she was worried about, she realized now. She’d grown enough over the past several months to know that one man’s opinion, however beloved, was not the be-all and end-all of her.

Every man’s opinion, though – and every woman’s – she had finally learned to walk among people, and it was harder than anything she’d ever done before, but she’d done it. Perhaps not very well, but she’d done it her way, as best she could.

And now she had to start all over from a crawl. Her clothing itched against her skin without her soft fur in between.

She nearly took a wrong turn. Her sense of smell had been muffled; she’d almost missed the stables halfway across the grounds. The gardens, which she’d had brief occasion to explore, no longer filled the air with sensual delight. They were brighter, yes, this whole world was colored sharper than the one before, and it hurt to look at. She could scarcely walk straight, and she felt cold and overheated in dizzying turns.

Nyara slipped inside the stable, ducking her head to avoid eye contact with the stable-boy at the door. The lack of smell should have been a relief in here, but she even missed the rich, real scent of horse-droppings. A tall dark bay craned his head over the door of his stall and whickered at her. She froze. 

The horse’s lip quivered, and his ears perked forward. He was a fine creature, with kind eyes and glossy coat, a streak of white marking his forehead. According to the brass plate affixed to the door, his name was Jack.

Jack seemed to be a very ordinary sort of horse, and he had whickered at her, still stared at her with expectant eyes. As if she was a very ordinary sort of visitor who might be convinced to procure a treat for him. He wasn’t wary of her, couldn’t smell the corruption in her flesh, couldn’t tell what she was – what she had been, she reminded herself. She stepped closer, enthralled, and reached out her hand. Jack leaned forward and sniffed at her fingers, his whiskers tickling at her bare skin.

Perhaps this was why she’d changed, she thought. Not to make her more seemly in the eyes of the crowd, but to allow her small moments like this.

Nyara felt the tears welling up again. This time she let them fall. She whirled away from the horse and dashed down the aisle, her limbs still quick once she got them moving. Spotting an empty stall, bare of straw and clearly not in use, she skidded a turn and darted inside. She tucked herself tight in the corner behind the door, clapped her hands to her mouth to muffle her sobs.

No longer a Changechild, but she had changed, and would keep changing. Nyara determined, hiccupping, that from now on no mage, sword, or goddess would direct that change. Whatever she was to become, she would become it of her own free will.


End file.
